Fille De Joie
by FMAlover555 i really like that
Summary: The first time he sold himself, Dean was fifteen years old. His dad's credit card scams weren't fairing too well, and the consistent hunger gnawing at his stomach reminded him that Sammy must be hungry too. He hadn't planned it, would have never thought that this was what he would end up doing. But sometimes, life was just like that. Wee!Chesters verse. Warning: Prostitution.


**I am a terrible person.**

* * *

The first time he sold himself, Dean was fifteen years old. Fifteen years, three months, six days and twenty-seven minutes old, to be exact. And it was the worst moment of his life.

He had only had sex once before, but he was good and it seemed easy. He didn't know how wrong he was.

A man had come up to him while he was standing on the side of Dino's, some run-down convenience store on a corner of some street in the bumblefuck little town that John had stopped in, and offered him a fifty if he sucked his cock. For a short, horrifying second, Dean didn't know what to do. He knew that he was attractive, that his broad shoulders, square jaw and pouty lips attracted both men and women alike, but they had never offered him money for _sex_.

"N... No!" he had sputtered, eyes wide.

The man's lips curled into a slimy smirk.

"If I up it up to seventy-five, do we have a deal?" he asked in what he supposed was an alluring tone.

Dean thought for a moment. His dad's credit card scams weren't fairing too well, and the consistent hunger gnawing at his stomach reminded him that Sammy must be hungry too.

"O... Okay."

And that was how Dean Winchester, son of John and the late Mary Winchester, brother of Samuel Winchester, ended up on his knees in the alleyway behind Dino's Convenience, three twenties, one ten and a five in the sole of his left shoe, his full lips stretched around a dirty fifty-something year old's erect dick, and grimy fingers knotted in his hair with slimy moans echoing around his ears.

The cum that had burst into his mouth after ten cruelly long minutes was warm and Dean decided that he hated the slightly salty slightly sweet liquid. Some dribbled down his chin, and when the man pulled away he swiped a hand across his mouth, the small pieces of gravel that stuck to his hands falling onto the front of his worn t-shirt.

He hadn't planned it, would have never thought that this was what he would end up doing. Until that very moment, Dean Winchester would have never thought that he would fall so far as to do _this._

And he kept doing it. He kept doing it because the look on Sammy's face when Dean brought home a foot long sub from the deli made it all worth it. And when he brought home a brand new pair of jeans that wasn't a hand-me-down, Sam smiled brighter than Dean had thought possible, because he finally had something that was _his_.

So it continued on. And the years passed and Dean went from fifteen to eighteen in what seemed like a blink of an eye. He dropped out of school two years after the takeoff of his prostitution career, and started doing it full time. That was when it all really started.

He began charging for kinks, and many didn't mind paying an extra fifty if it meant that they could run rampant on the teen's body. Then he started raising the rates. He began bringing home more and more cash, and Sam became increasingly suspicious. He never asked though, and for that Dean was grateful.

But there was a small part of him, so faint he could barely hear it over the roar of his thoughts, that made Dean want Sam to find out. A bijou little thing that whispered to let Sam know, because Dean knew the boy would beg him to stop. And he would, has Sammy asked him to.

But he didn't. Because he didn't know. And despite that microscopic urge, Dean hid what he did from his little brother, tucked it away neatly into his pocket because it was what he needed to do. No amount of suffering could ever deter Dean from getting Sam what he needed.

So what if he had to sneak into the motel room just before the sun began to peak over the horizon? It didn't matter that the dents and bruises mixed with the ones from hunting and John. Dean was always injured in someway or another, whether the damage be dealt by his father, or hunting, or his clients. It didn't matter. There was no difference.

There was no difference because it kept his family safe.

Dean did what he had to do, and when the nightmares plagued him, when clients took more than what they paid for, when John hit a bit too hard, he thought of Sam.

And with those thoughts in mind, Dean sauntered on and did what he had to do.

Dean did his job.


End file.
